


Gods Be Good

by Valhalla (Red_Temper)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Boys Kissing, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras-centric, M/M, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5774305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Temper/pseuds/Valhalla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't be afraid, I'm not going to hurt to you," he tried to say reassuringly.</p><p>The child, at least, did not move. He looked back towards the edge of the field; corkscrew curls bobbing wildly around his head. He turned back and looked up at Enjolras with cautious but curious eyes. Enjolras looked back, equally entranced by the child; there was pull inside him, the kind that tended to come from blood of the immortal kind.</p><p>The spell was broken by a woman's musical call. "Grantaire! Grantaire!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods Be Good

Apollo stood in impressive glory in the centre of the courtyard, the filtering beams of sun sparking in his golden hair. The vines wrapped around soaring pillars bristled in his presence, snaking out to soak in the warmth of his skin and his sun shining overhead. The cool trickle of water from the misting fountains provided an otherwise calming atmosphere, if one ignored the scowling look of fury on the sun god's face.

Hermes skidded to a stop on the stone tiles, waving at the other Olympian, a broad smile on his face. He jogged over, crowing a loud,  "Enjolras, what can I do for you?"

Apollo gracefully avoided the messenger's move to dive into his arms, crossing them instead. "Where were you?"

Hermes shrugged and said a tad too casually, "You know me, errand boy for the big man. I go where he wants."

Apollo narrowed his eyes; Hermes swallowed and rubbed a hand through his hair, " You know, I think I might be needed, so I'm gonna go –"

He was hauled to a stop by Apollo's hand fixed fast in his tunic. The other god's eyes were endless blue and spitting at him.

"You missed an important meeting."

"Can you give me the cliff notes?" Hermes grinned charmingly at his friend, and the distraction seemed successful when the blonde opened his mouth to reply with a lecture on 'taking this seriously.'

Hermes was congratulating himself when the blonde returned with, "Where were you?" And Hermes realised his distraction hadn't worked at all.

"Enjolras."

"Courfeyrac."

Hermes realised when it came to raw stubbornness he was outmatched and jerked his head back the way he had come in, "Come on."

Enjolras' brows drew together, but he released his friend and followed him down from Olympus to the human world below. They landed in a field, clutches of flowers blooming around the place, all of it thriving under Apollo's sun.

At the end of the field was a small farm consisting of a small wooden dwelling, a dilapidated stable, and a wagon turned down onto the grass: broken. The god could see nothing that would send Hermes here, let alone keep him.

An altar was in a corner of the yard, crude but smoking with offerings. Enjolras could smell the power of the offering surge through him and he looked to Courfeyrac incredulously, "You came here to get high!"

Courfeyrac pretended to be scandalised, "How dare you!"

He started across the field without Enjolras, "Come on, you idiot. Unless you don't want to know anymore?"

His voice carried back to the sun god, cheerful provocation bouncing from syllable to syllable. Enjolras' jaw flexed and he seriously considered letting it go, but still he waded through the tall grass towards the farm.

Closer to the edge of the field, Enjolras could hear giggling on the wind, and then the outright laughter of a small child. The grass to left waved unnaturally and something small and solid dived at him from the cover.

"Caught you," the small thing declared, and Enjolras' lips twitched into a smile despite himself.

"You did," he responded, and the mortal child looked up, beaming expression dimming and turning fearful. The tiny hands unclasped from his calf and the child backed away, eyes watery and wide with terror.

The child looked about to run or cry, and Enjolras felt a rush of guilt even though he was well aware the child had attacked _him_. "Don't be afraid, I'm not going to hurt to you," he tried to say reassuringly.

The child, at least, did not move. He looked back towards the edge of the field; corkscrew curls bobbing wildly around his head. He turned back and looked up at Enjolras with cautious but curious eyes. Enjolras stared back, equally entranced by the child; there was pull inside him, the kind that tended to come from blood of the immortal kind.

The spell was broken by a woman's musical call. "Grantaire! Grantaire!"

Enjolras heard her say more quietly, "Now where've you scampered off to, you wee rascal," the affection in her voice somehow putting Enjolras at ease, as though he'd been worried about the boy.

Enjolras scoffed out loud and the boy jolted, scooping up the small pile of flowers that had fallen and decorated Enjolras' sandalled feet when the child had tumbled towards him. Making a basket out of the front of his tunic, he piled the flowers there and ran towards the dark haired woman kneeling to tend the altar. He passed Courfeyrac on his thin, little legs and the messenger waved and called out, "Pretty flowers, R."

The child's laugh floated back to Enjolras and the god suddenly remembered that he had legs and how they worked and started towards his friend, waiting at the edge of the field.

The woman looked in their direction and her face darkened. Enjolras went cold at the thought that she might've seen them, but then she looked towards her son, squirming in her lap as she wreathed his hair with flowers; her expression shared the same beaming happiness as her son, and Enjolras was sure he'd simply imagined it.

But the boy, he had seen Enjolras; touched him.

"How do you know that boy? He can see us."

That was very rare.

Courfeyrac shrugged noncommittally and shushed Enjolras when he went to press. The boy's voice was high and clear as he protested to his mother.

"Why are you putting them there? They're for the Gods!"

His mother laughed and hugged his energetic body to hers, "The Gods have no use for flowers, my love. The wine will be enough."

"But the flowers are so pretty, they don't need to be use – use – useful?"

"Well, when you pray, you can mention it to them," the mother teased, and the child giggled as she tickled his sides.

Something in Enjolras deflated at the child's innocence; the boy just wanted to make them an offering of something beautiful for beauty's sake and no other, because this child thought it might make the Gods happy.

Courf smiled a little wistfully, "Musichetta would've loved that."

Gods have no need of flowers; Enjolras, just for a second, wished they did.

The mother finished mouthing her prayer; the boy mouthing along, kneeling at her side, seemingly devoted; except, he kept seeking glances at the two of them.

She opened her eyes and the boy's voice piped up again, "Will they fix the wagon so the harvest goes out?"

He clearly didn't understand the words exact meanings, he just knew the wagon was broken and had heard the rest spoken by his parents and was parroting it back, but Enjolras could hear the worry in his young voice. He might not understand the implications of the offering or the broken wagon, but even this child could tell it was bad. Enjolras understood the implications.

He heard the mother sigh and say, "The Gods will do as they do."

The child's face dropped and his mother turned back towards the house. The boy dropped to kneel in front of the altar and abandoned the traditional words his mother was teaching him, and prayed, "Dear Gods, if you are not busy, could you fix the wagon? Dada is so angry, he worked so hard, and mother is sad at night. Just – if you could – Please fix the wagon."

The boy rose and scampered back towards the house, the flowers in his hair very bright against his dark colouring. He stopped as he passed them, waving and giving Enjolras a cautious smile. Courfeyrac waved back and shooed him into the house.

Once the boy was safe behind the door, Enjolras went and inspected the wagon. There was long crack on one wheel, the wood warping inwards under its own weight. Not exactly Apollo's area of expertise, but Enjolras supposed healing a wheel would be much the same as healing a wound. He placed a hand over the split, godly energy glimmering around him.

Courfeyrac stopped him, a hand gripping his shoulder tightly.

"You can't do this."

Enjolras glared, "Am I not a God?"

Courfeyrac shook his head at him, "It doesn't work like this. You _know_ that."

Enjolras took his hand away and the wood groaned, "How do you know the boy?"

"Dionysus asked me to check on him, I visit him around the fire festival every year."

Enjolras watched his friend bite his lip and knew there was more; he stood up straighter. "Why?"

Courfeyrac glanced towards the door, the fire glow flickering underneath it. He looked a curious mix of fond and anxious.

"He is Dionysus' last descendant. From Ariadne's line."

The boy had immortal blood. Enjolras had certainly suspected. He put his hand back on the wheel.

"What are you doing?" Courf hissed, with an edge of panic.

"Saving Dionysus' last descendant from starving come winter," Enjolras answered viciously.

Courfeyrac snatched Enjolras' hand away and dragged him back towards the field. Enjolras fought but the messenger's grip was steel.

"Let me go, he might die!"

Courf whirled to face him. "Well, what a change of heart you've had. Last week you were preaching that we should ignore the mortals so we can establish a better order on Olympus. That favouritism and undue use of power and interfering with mortal's lives are some of the ugliest parts of the Gods. One hour with Grantaire and you give up on everything you stand for."

His friend's gaze was brimming with emotion, the messenger always inclined to feel things strongly. His voice was soft when he said, "Do not think I wouldn't do it in a second if I could, but we cannot. Not like this."

The messenger of the Gods disappeared into the heather. Enjolras cast a look at the door, hearing the child's clumsy prayer in his head, and then at the wagon. He turned away.

 

*

 

The fire festival was closing in again. Courfeyrac was busy, so Enjolras was alone to make the trip this time. One year, it seemed not so long ago that he’d last been here. One year: no time at all for God, but perhaps everything for the boy.

Enjolras felt his heart lift as he waded through the heather towards the small farm. He could hear Grantaire's voice on the other side of the stables. He had lived; the travelling tinker had found them in time.

The boy skidded around the building, his knees and palms skinned, dirty, and without flowers in his hair. A dog followed him, nipping at his feet. The sun was setting and Enjolras could hear no other voices in the house, no movement. There was only the boy, the whinny of a horse, and the panting of the dog.

The boy looked out to the road leading away from the house, opening the door for the dog to pad inside. It wore a crown of hyacinths.

"He'll be home soon, Maia, but tonight you can sleep with me," the boy told the dog, something broken in his tone, his gaze into the night: hopeless.

Ignoring the God, he turned and let the door bang shut behind him. Enjolras' stood there for a long time. He finally left when dawn was closing in and he had no other choice.

It was only when he was out of sight, Enjolras realised the boy had looked at him as though he was seeing right through him.

As though he wasn't there at all.

 

*

 

Enjolras didn't go back. Valjean had finally started listening to him, even agreeing on some points, and things were changing on Olympus. His cause was finally gaining traction with Gods beyond his own small company. With this came a litany of excuses to avoid accompanying Courfeyrac again.  

The messenger rarely came back elated from these recent visits, the heartbreak in his eyes etching itself deeper every year. Enjolras used to think about asking about the boy, used to wonder if he was well. Sometimes he would think vindictively that if Courfeyrac hadn't intervened maybe it wouldn't be like this.  

In the end, he always held his tongue; attachment to mortals had only ended well once or twice in thousands of years. He had more important things to think about.

Still, it bothered him to know that Combeferre kept a chart of this singular human’s life on his person at all times, rather than in the vault with the others; it bothered him that Dionysus looked at him with guarded eyes every time they were so much as in the same room. It bothered him that he couldn’t read Dionysus’ face, and simultaneously it bothered him that he cared.

But, he had more important things to think about.

Then, he was sent to the mortal world to quell a riot at the temple of Demeter. 

The city, surrounded by farmland and with only the one temple for communal worship, had dispelled its markets for the day. Instead, the citizens lobbied fruit against metres tall statues, cheering when they splattered across intricately carved hair or faces. People pontificated, yelling for the benefit of the roaring peoples, on the faults of the Gods. Bookies took bets for where the collections of produce would hit, and how well they exploded when they did. The sacred trees carried the weight of children and youths who dared to climb them, laughing and jeering with the crowd.

They were baiting the Gods; wilfully forgetting their power. A tomato splattered at his feet, throwing meaty trails over his toes, and he rose from where he'd crouched on a nearby roof. He would bring an end to this.

"Stop this," the sun god commanded, voice cracking across the sky and an arc of sunlight splintered over his figure; gleaming through his curls, "This is not the way to attract the attention of the Gods."  

The gathering went quiet and still with awe. There was only mortal who still moved; a youth, caught at the back of the crowd, who turned away unimpressed.  

The youth broke away from the crowd and walked away from the temple; stopping to pick up a satchel and three wrapped bundles from the back of a wagon; he was followed by a gangly child with straw blonde hair, jogging to keep up with the youth's longer stride.  

"Where are you going?" The child asked, disappointed.  

"I'm taking you home, it was a mistake to come in the first place."  

"But that guy could be a messenger from the Gods!" 

"He's a guy on a roof. By your standards because he has blonde hair, he must be Apollo. Come on."  

The child sighed and kicked his feet. "Some of us believe in the Gods, you know."  

Enjolras was at once gratified by the words of this child, proof that his work on Olympus was worth something even if it wasn’t immediate, and then the youth responded, "There are no Gods."  

Enjolras’ fists curled and clenched; his body suddenly alight with the need to prove those words wrong.

And as though someone else had heard the derisive bitterness in the youth's voice, like the spread of an infection the crowd came to life again, defiant, and from its centre came the yell.

'Fuck the Gods!'  

Anger whiplashed through the gathering. The chant was taken up, mouths howling sacrilege; fists raised in the air; a particularly bold mortal picked up an axe from the back of a cart and swung it into the trunk of one Demeter's sacred trees. It stuck, defiantly, in the wood.  

Enjolras' fury was swift and terrible. The animals scattered from the square, knocking people down, trampling them, dragging some particular unfortunates from the area, and the people reacted in fear and anger, some in madness. Most scattered; the sorry few who were brave enough and foolish enough to stay and face the God’s wrath, were struck down in the coming days by a vicious illness.

Enjolras held no remorse for them.

The temple was cleaned of its defilement. The axe was not removed from the tree. The people hadn’t forgotten their anger, or its price.

Returning to Olympus, Enjolras – still stuck fast in furious temper – uncharitably hoped the foolish speaking youth had likewise succumbed to plague.

Enjolras ceased to notice Courfeyrac’s comings and goings. Valjean had provided a compromise that limited the severity of curses placed on humans for offending the Gods, while allowing godly intervention on the behalf of heroes. It was the beginning of a new Olympus, which meant lots of arguing and stating of cases and petty squabbles to sort out before anything had even actually happened. Enjolras didn’t see beyond the walls of the council room for days, possibly months – time didn’t mean much to the Gods, except Combeferre. Enjolras won, in the end.

But Courfeyrac hadn’t returned.

 

*

 

The second time Enjolras set foot on mortal soil in years, he landed just outside the husk of a small farm with a burnt out stable and an altar overgrown with flowering vines.  

Courfeyrac's signature permeated the area, the weaker signature underneath it nearly stamped out, but even then they were both a few days old at least and weak to begin with. Courfeyrac and the other - mortal, most likely - had not stayed long.  

Perhaps, the messenger had found the others and gotten distracted by their stories or sidetracked telling his own.  

Musichetta - Antheia only when speaking with Zeus – had gone to the mortal world and not returned for many months, coming only to Olympus to confirm her continued existence before disappearing; this time taking Joly – best known as Asclepius – with her. Not even Zeus could reach them, had long since given up, and their signature was long gone.  

Enjolras wandered through wreckage, he didn't recall how he knew this place but it stirred something inside him.

It was abandoned, and no wonder.  

On the wind, he could hear a child laughing, ghost-like with distance. On some whim of emotion, he picked a flower off the vine and stuck it in his curls. Hyacinths; he hadn't been aware they grew in this area, but now he could see them dotting the field beyond the blackened house and springing out around the small altar.  

Enjolras closed his eyes and opened them again in the nearest city. The square below was bustling with market day activity, a stark difference between the loud shouts of produce prices from today and the yelling of the riot from before. Courfeyrac's signature was even weaker here and Enjolras scowled at the mortals passing by – the few that felt his stare shuddering under the weight of it. It could take him all day to find him with only this trace of him to go by. He closed his eyes and –  

He snapped them open again as the second signature from the farm wandered into the area, accompanied by a violent, nauseating tug in his centre. The sun god would never admit to it almost making him fall, it was so strong.

From the rooftop courtyard he'd landed on, the view of the square was complete. His gaze jumped from mortal to mortal, the signature growing stronger and the god could feel the emotions rolling off the bearer; the light fizz of transient happiness, the squish and bloom of a love not yet fully realised. The feeling that washed over him next, lingering underneath all that wonderful good, was the cold terror of the hopeless. Enjolras’ fingers dug into the stone ledge. He latched onto it; his breath punching out of his lungs.

There!  

Enjolras could see them; buying figs from a cart across the square, pocketing more while the vendor wasn't looking. People to-ed and fro-ed, blocking the god's view; he couldn't see their face, or pinpoint their voice, but he felt them move. And in the blink of an eye, Enjolras was behind them, as they moved off the vendor's space.  

The god caught them by the arm. Now, he could find Courfeyrac and get back to other important things. The lean body – smaller than Enjolras had expected from far away, his grip tighter than possibly needed – whipped around and Enjolras was met with the face of the youth from the temple riot. The lad's flyaway curls corkscrewed wildly about his face, his eyes wide and some indescribable between-shade of blue, green, and grey.  

Enjolras lost his thoughts, whatever words had been poised on his tongue slid away. The lad looked beyond bewildered, and slowly as though he was folding inward, his expression shuttered and turned guarded. There was a niggling in Enjolras' mind that it was familiar.  

The lad's eyes slid down to his arm, to Enjolras' hand on his arm, and the god suddenly announced before he got more suspicious, "You shouldn't steal. That man has to make a living, you don't have the right to deprive him of that."  

The lad's mouth twisted and he shook Enjolras free, "I have to eat. If he's got money to buy food, he's already way ahead of me," the youth's eyes skated back towards the vendor as he said, "And if he doesn't, he's got more figs to make up the difference than I do. Anyone ever tell you accosting strangers in the street is rude?"  

The lad clearly wasn't looking for an answer, as he started to lope away; Enjolras kept pace easily. The lad glanced at him out of his periphery but didn’t comment on the sudden companionship.

"Why do you steal?" Enjolras could admit to having ulterior motives for engaging the youth, but part of him was curious about him. He might never get to have a conversation with someone who held absolutely no belief in his kind again.  

The youth made an unbecoming sound with his nose and replied, "I'm fairly sure I just told you."  

"Why do you not have enough to eat?" Enjolras snapped in return, the twinkle in the youth's eyes suggesting he was already well aware of what Enjolras had meant and was just being difficult for the sake of it. Irritation burnt under the god's skin but the sickening pull in chest receded as he walked beside the youth.  

Alleys and side streets had twisted by and before the youth could formulate an answer, he stopped outside a mid sized tavern, barely passing as such when it was so obviously also a pleasure house. Enjolras was unsure if the youth was a customer or a worker; both were entirely unsettling thoughts.  

The lad caught his affronted look and laughed. "Not what you expected; thought a nice boy like me had some land somewhere, a sweetheart, couple of herds of sheep and a yappy dog?”

The youth sobered quickly, the amusement too brittle to maintain, "My friend's folks own this place. I work here, tending bar only. But regardless, your judgment is both unnecessary and unwelcome. Have nice day now."  

The youth had one foot inside the door when Enjolras seized him again by the arm. A burst of warmth flowed into his hands from the lad's skin, the emotions colouring the signature no longer distinguishable but vibrant, nearly drowning out the ever present black below.  

"Wait. I'm looking for someone and I need your help."  

The lad's brows rose at the demand and he tapped on the wood of the doorframe thoughtfully.  

"You must think I know 'em."  

The lad smiled charmingly, and remarked, with an air that suggested he was baiting Enjolras even though he knew he'd be caught out, "It is an awfully big city."  

Enjolras didn't budge, and the youth's eyes flicked over him, tracing his face and the halo of curls, down his neck and over shoulders. The lad even noted his waist and hips, his thighs and calves. He smiled a little at his feet and ankles, and it seemed a very long time before his eyes flicked back up.  

"The festival is tomorrow night, there'll be a bonfire in the woods. Accompany me there and we'll see if I know your lost friend."  

The lad dug into his bag, pulled out a fig and bit into it, "I hope for the sake of our relationship that they're happy to see you."

He stayed with Enjolras until he'd finished the fig, tracing some of the god's features like he was memorising them for later, totally ignoring the sudden bouts of rowdy disagreement from behind the open door, then hefted himself off the doorframe and disappeared inside.

 

*

 

Enjolras settled onto the roof ledge opposite the tavern, the low tones of the youth in his ear as the god tracked him through the rooms of the building.  

He could hear the proprietor scolding the lad for disappearing 'and leaving paying customers without drink or something pretty to look at. We don't feed you and house you for nothing. You're lucky, you know what the house at the corner does with boys like you.'  

The lad snapped back something rude and the sound of a rough hand hitting yielding flesh rang in Enjolras' ear drums and sudden fury flashed through his body. He shot to his feet.  

'What a change of heart you've had…Do not think I wouldn't do it if I could, but we cannot,' Courfeyrac's voice played in his head. Enjolras shook his head to rid himself of it, shaking loose the hyacinth tucked above his ear. His fine fingers snatched it out of the air before it had the chance to blow away, and tempo of his heart seemed to slow, the blinding rage sluicing through his blood overtaken by a terrible sadness.  

He tucked the flower back in his curls; today was a strange day.  

The door to the tavern swung open and the youth stepped to the side to allow a knobby body with flying straw coloured hair to race around the corner and inside, a pair of figs quickly changing hands.  

The lad looked up, squinting at the figure shining bright enough to be a second sun. Enjolras heard the youth's breath catch, but he covered it hastily with a cough.

"Get inside before someone sees you," he ordered, leaving the door agape and vanishing into the building.  

Enjolras landed gracefully on the ground and stepped over the threshold. Immediately he was hit with spiced aroma of wine and the dank smell of sweat and sex. The lad walked him to a table in the corner, out of the way and unnoticed, pushing a tanker of wine in front of him.  

"You don't have a drink, you don't stay," he explained, glancing over to the man – the proprietor: judging from both his dress and the ring on his left hand, matching the red splotch high on the lad's cheekbone – lounging and drinking with what appeared to be a gang of street thugs.  

"Unless you're here for something other than drinking, but then you have to talk to him."  

The lad paused and Enjolras saw the thought occur to him and he searched the god's face with an acute expression of alarm, "You don't–"  

"Not interested," the god cut in before he even put the idea out there. The lad nodded awkwardly, crossing his arms across his torso and dancing his fingers across his biceps. Enjolras' focus fixed on the youth, as his lower lip sucked into his mouth and teeth worried its edge.  

"I should–" the lad eventually started, interrupted by the call of the proprietor.  

"If he wants you, boy, he's gonna have to pay for you! In the meantime, my glass is empty!"  

The youth quivered and spun around, "That's not–" he began to protest, but cut himself off and heaved a sigh, "Coming."

Enjolras bit back a growl and watched the slope of the youth's back as he went around with a jug and filled up their cups. His hands curled into fists on the tabletop; counted the times they touched the lad while he fought back flinches.

A blonde head popped up in the opposite the god. The scrawny child the youth had let in plonked down on the stool opposite and made a swipe for Enjolras' cup. The god pushed it out of reach, a brow raised at the audacious child.  

"Hey, you're the guy from the temple, on the rooftop! How do you know, R?"  

Enjolras' eyes flicked to the youth at the bar, making up spiced wine from scratch; without any of the right ingredients.  

"R."  

The slow crawl of a smile on the child's face was disconcerting to watch, the child's big eyes glimmering with an ominous knowing.  

"If you don't pack up soon, you're gonna have to stay the night," the child said, innocently, "and if you stay the night, you're gonna need a room. He won't let you just have one, you know."  

Those big eyes blinked and Enjolras sat in silent shock at the implication the child had effortlessly delivered; R looked up at him from across the room, his long lashes sweeping his cheeks as he quickly looked down again.  

"Gav, stop bothering him."  

The child smirked, a snaggletooth poking over his bottom lip, and hopped off the stool to pester R and sample his creation.  

Enjolras heard him exclaim, "There's no way you made This from Those," followed by "You're magic, R!" And the god's mouth turned up a little.  

He cleared his throat and the men at the table by the wall all swung round to look at him; the proprietor had a mean face, that was all the more cruel for the fact that it was, in some lights, relatively handsome. He set his cup down with a clank and barked, "Whatddya want?"  

Enjolras fingered the rim of his cup and tried not to broadcast the effort it was to say mildly, "I would like a room for the night," he paused and took a second to doubt his course of action, before pushing it aside.  

He nodded at the youth, R. "And I want him, too."  

The proprietor gaped, and then laughed. The men around him joined in; they guffawed drunkenly and the man over turned his drink as he turned back from clapping a beautifully sinister man on the shoulder. He abruptly stopped laughing to swear, "Gods be damned! Boy, clean up this mess!"  

The child, Gav, was quicker than R - the elder shocked into stillness by the turn of the conversation - and had mopped up the mess with a bunch of rags before the man who had spilled it could verbalise anything else.  

The proprietor turned back to him and slurred, "'im? He ain't for sale."  

Enjolras looked towards R, and found the youth gazing back. The god watched the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed, his hands wound tight in a clean rag, his voice clear and lovely like music in the god's ears.  

"No, no, it's fine. He can stay with me."

The man whirled on R and the youth seemed to jump in place, “Oh, he will. And what will he be paying with?

R looked down and idly picked up some dishware to clean, looking very involved in the action. Enjolras took a sip of the wine, the flavour bursting across his taste buds and – Oh, he was familiar with that taste. He put the wine down, eyes shooting back to the youth’s concentrated face.

“Well?”

The god snapped back to himself and he looked the man over, head filling with ideas of what he could do to him, and all the things he wanted to do but wouldn’t.  

“Tomorrow. I require the boy till then, and after you shall get everything you deserve in full payment.”

The god stood and handed the cup off to the man. He strode over to the lad, taking the rag from his hands and laying it on the counter. He smiled a little smile at the youth, who would not meet his eyes, and asked, “Now, may I see my room?”

R jerked up and nodded quickly, anxiously leading the god away from the main room to the back of the house and up a rickety set of stairs. He stopped dead in front of a door at the very back of house, squished into a surprising turn at the end of the hall, and hunched in on himself.

“I don’t – I haven’t – I’m not–”

Enjolras raised a hand and R’s attempts to form a sentence died away. The god pushed the door open, taking in the small cot, the hard chair, the collection of papers drawn upon by rough charcoal stacked high on a small table, the flowers – hyacinths, of course – blooming in a cheap and cracked vase next to them, and the clothes scattered on the floor. He gestured for R to go in and shut the door behind them both.

The youth was shivering, curled up on his cot. Enjolras felt a sudden of annoyance at his thoughtlessness.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

R jolted at his words, wide eyes confused as they flickered around him. He cautiously took a seat in the chair provided, R’s unsettled eyes tracking every movement and limbs loosening for every second Enjolras proved his word. There was that feeling of forgetting again, the irritation of something trying to be remembered but unable to break through, rising in the god.

The god had a feeling he’d said the same thing to someone just like R before.

 

*

 

"R says he don't believe in you."  

Enjolras didn't expect to be ambushed over breakfast by the child he'd come to learn was called Gavroche. He expected even less to be found out, by the same child no less.

His sister Eponine was R's best friend; she had brought him home one winter and kept him. She was a priestess dedicated to Demeter, most of the time. She did not live in the tavern and R wasn't going to tell what it was like without her. 

All of this information had come to Enjolras in the same frank manner that Gavroche had used to make his previous statement.  

My sister is Eponine.  

R's her best friend. She's a priestess. She lives with Cosette and her inept fiancé.  

You're an Olympian, right? Apollo. Ain't nobody round here who looks like you who ain't a God.  

R says he doesn't believe in you.  

The child's face twitched in amusement as Enjolras drew out his sip of mulled wine and set the cup down between them.  

"Not my problem."  

Gavroche snatched the cup away and dropped to the floor, his feet soundless even when smacking onto hard stone.  

The child snorted. "That's probably why."  

 

*  

 

It rankled him, R’s confirmed disbelief. Enjolras had no experience leaving things that irritated him to rest. R had a free day in preparation for the beginning of the festival, and he spent the better part of it arguing with Enjolras under the shade of an orange tree behind the Thenadier's tavern.  

"To say the Gods don't exist at all, when you have proof of them, is dishonest. You know that you lie when you say it!"  

"Where is my proof? Of course we have plague, most of us don't have access to clean water; crops grow in spring, well, the sun shines but it rains sometimes. How is that any more because of the Gods than just some factor of the natural world, natural not supernatural, not godly and not immortal, that is unrelated to the stories we tell about magical beings in the sky."  

R ran out of air and his thoughts trailed off, the flush on his cheeks taking a minute to calm. His lips were resolute and Enjolras would never admit out loud how attractive they seemed in that moment. The youth was unfairly interesting to look at, his form in motion, in passion – even spilling sacrilege – was as close to a religious experience as a god could understand.  

R soon continued in a softer tone, "If the Gods are there, what excuse do they have for their inattention? They demand we pray and worship in their honour and in return they curse us in the name of petty rivalries and broadly termed 'sacrilege.' Heroes are plucked from their lives and fought over like toys for great causes that never end happily. Who decides who gets punished and who gets away with it? Isn't it better to live a life where all those things are just bad luck, wrong place–wrong time happenstance?"  

"Easier does not equal better. Do you not think the Gods might change; that they are fighting for it, and maybe it's happening?"  

R watched him with guarded eyes, and Enjolras met them unflinchingly. A smile pulled at the youth's lips and he let it spill into his eyes. One blink and the cautiousness vanished.  

He pulled a handful of grass and threw the stalks in the blonde's general direction, only a few actually landing in his lap.  

"Did they tell you that, oh messenger?"  

Enjolras blinked at him, and R managed to pelt him in the face with a shower of greenery.  

"I remember. You clearly have a thing for roofs. "  

"I see better from up high," Enjolras defended, but R was busy giggling at the indignation that had written itself across his features following R's attack on his face. The youth smiled wildly as he picked the stalks out of Enjolras' curls.  

"Sorry," he said insincerely. He sat back and there was a happy glimmer in his eyes. Enjolras checked his signature out of habit and almost missed the youth's next words because of the way his heart pounded in reaction to the connection.  

"Unless you only defend the Gods so well because you are one, oh mighty Apollo?"  

Enjolras jolted and the connection broke. He felt the splash back of his own power, the air around them heated with it. Despite the sudden heat, R's face went bloodless, his eyes staring unseeing, his mouth open.  

Enjolras tapped his hand, squeezing it when all it prompted was a mechanical turn of his head. R blinked a couple of times, quickly and confusedly, and then snapped his mouth closed. He took a couple of deep breaths. His gaze focused again. His hand slipped out from under Enjolras' and tangled in his hair, his cheeks pinking in embarrassment.  

They sat in silence, and the sun moved around them (Combeferre didn't love the sun chariot but he knew how to drive it). R dozed, his weight resting on his hands flung out behind him.  

"You are wrong about the Gods," Enjolras murmured, low enough that R almost couldn't hear.  

Enjolras caught the provoking smile at the edges of his lips, though his face was turned away.  

"The Gods will do as they do."  

And that was that. It felt like one swift pinch to gut and Enjolras was winded by those words.  

Too soon, R got up to change for the festival, leaving Enjolras behind. The god, for the first time, prayed to his fellows.  

"Zeus, give me strength. Show me what I'm missing."  

He was glad for it when R returned to his side, dangerously alluring in a green tunic and flowers decked throughout his hair; hyacinths. Enjolras' lungs stuttered and froze. A chill tripped down the knots of his spine and his ears rang with the musical call of 'Grantaire!'  

He could see the child hiding in the tall grasses, curls bobbing with brightly coloured flowers; the farm and the altar, the dog with the crown of hyacinths.  

What a fool he'd been.  

R's face was drawn with concern and Enjolras turned towards the forest, where fires flickered in the dusk.  

"I need to find my friend."  

He missed the way R's face fell and shuttered on his back. The youth marched past him, into the trees, one hand swinging at his side, the other latched on Enjolras' wrist while they wove through gatherings and fire pits.  

Boisterous laughter came from a fireside between the trees, smaller than others; and there, on a log, sat Musichetta and Joly, the light reflecting off the bald head of the man between them, their arms all looped together. Courfeyrac across from them, flirting with the most terrifying priestess Enjolras had ever encountered and she took it with grace and a wolfish grin. A shining blonde and a man who seemed almost entirely composed of knees and elbows was on their other side.  

R stepped in the circle of light to cheers and whistles, blushing and taking a seat on the other side of Musichetta. He was immediately pulled into the bald man's lap with a cry of 'Bossuet!' for a many armed and legged hug.  

Courfeyrac look at the pile of limbs and beamed, the priestess – Eponine – followed it on to see Enjolras half in shadow at the edge of the circle.  

"Who's your friend, R?" She asked over the crackle of the fire, and the badly volumed whispers from the mound, with enough eyebrow action to imply a whole host of assumptions.  

R went very still and his three captors all whipped around, peering into the space beyond the firelight.  

It was Joly who gasped and squeaked, "Apollo."  

R shot upright, rolling off the laps that held him, and up to his feet with impressive speed and poise.  

"Antheia, Asclepius," Enjolras greeted, turning to Courfeyrac coolly, "Hermes."  

Courfeyrac was the only one to look guilty. R's expression hovered somewhere between bewildered and betrayed.  

"My friends," he whispered to himself, eyes seeking Enjolras out, "You."  

He shook his head and looked away, eyes shadowed by his curls. Then, to the fierce priestess, "Find me when this done."  

R walked between the trees and away from the fire.  

Courfeyrac sighed and the sound he made was full of annoyance, "What did you do, Enjolras?"  

"Me? You've been missing for days, Olympus was blind; no one could find you!"  

"Ah! The R effect, our hypothesis is proved!" The bald man crowed at Joly, and the God lit up at him. Musichetta dropped her head onto his shoulder, "Perhaps now is not the time, my love."  

Enjolras flinched at the clear affection in her voice and gestures, and for a mortal. As if sensing his thoughts, the Goddess of flowers glared down her nose at him, even though she sat and he stood.  

"Olympus can wait," Courfeyrac interjected, breaking the tension; he pointed sternly at Enjolras, "You need to talk to R."  

"He doesn't believe in us! Why are you all still here?"  

Joly and Bossuet shook their heads sadly, with an innate sort of syncopation. Enjolras felt a flare of envy for the life they had shared – the three of them.  

"We're proving him wrong, day by day," Courfeyrac's eyes were shimmering with challenge, "Would've thought you'd be more supportive; he's one of us, after all."  

Enjolras grit his teeth, "We are needed on Olympus."  

"I'm not denying that for some of us that is true, but not all the time, and certainly not tonight," Courfeyrac responded reasonably, and suddenly his expression turned cheeky.  

"Besides R's my friend, and a slightly immortal one at that, but from my reliable informer Eponine, who has been reliably informed by Gavroche, you two are strolling down romance road – or at least R was before you turned into a dick the way a carriage turns into a pumpkin."  

He could see a shadow moving against the solid trunk of a tree only so far away for the clearing and knew it was Grantaire.  

"Go show him what the Gods should be."  

Enjolras was moving before Courfeyrac had even finished speaking, the pull that had drawn him to Grantaire in the first place drawing them back together.  

R was facing away, mind working furiously behind a vacant gaze, and Enjolras moved through the trees to reach him without detection. "I first met you when you were a child," he spoke out, startling the youth, leaning against the tree before his. R was outlined in silver, his eyes reflecting the moon. "We met in a field outside your home, your mother put flowers in your hair, and you prayed to us that we would fix the wagon."  

Grantaire's breath whistled harshly through his teeth and he pushed back into the tree as though wishing to sink into it. Enjolras had seen enough of that in his life. He reached out and pulled him into his space.  

"I almost did," Enjolras admitted, his voice dropping low and soft. 

Grantaire's eyes were shimmering and wide, irises dark in the centre, pupils blown wide.  

"We all the draw the line somewhere, and now there is change on Olympus. There is the chance that we can be better than we are now and it started with you."  

Enjolras, emboldened by the darkness, the privacy and the way Grantaire's hands were gripped on his waist, kept talking.  

"The Gods do not live to please you, Grantaire, but we do not only live to please ourselves. Remember that the next time you need something from us."  

Grantaire's mouth pinched and smoothed out into a cautious smile. His fingers twisted deeper in the fabric of Enjolras' tunic.  

"Olympus is one thing, but you're something else, Apollo."  

Enjolras lifted a hand, cupping it on Grantaire's jaw, thumb tapping on the youth's bottom lip. "You'll see."  

Grantaire tilted his chin and stepped in till their chests were pressed together. He raised a hand to tangle in the god's blonde curls. Enjolras deftly caught the single flower that tumbled out and placed it, with its fellows, in Grantaire's wild locks.  

"Show me, right now," Grantaire demanded, challenge lighting up his eyes, brighter than flame or moonlight could ever hope.  

Enjolras kissed him, and Grantaire sighed into his mouth. His back hit against the tree, his arms wrapped tight around the youth's slighter body. Grantaire tugged on his hair, body curved to fit perfectly against the god's. Enjolras had to pull away, the smile on his lips making it impossible to kiss R the way he wanted to.  

"This is all Courfeyrac's fault. I should thank him."  

"We should go back."  

"Why? We have at least a day before they start looking."  

Enjolras could feel the vibrations of Grantaire's laughter, the heave of his chest, and prayed to his fellows for the second time.  

'I pray to you, my friends, that you protect this mortal in my name. Lead me back to him when I have forgotten what's important, so that I may lead him to the light when he is lost.'  

Above the trees, lightning flashed in the clouds and then, the sky cleared and moonlight splintered the trees with light.

**Author's Note:**

> This is wildly self-indulgent, please deal with it.
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [purely-puck](http://purely-puck.tumblr.com/) and [the-most-marvellous-youth](http://the-most-marvellous-youth.tumblr.com/)


End file.
